


Just Love's Illusion

by sarcasticsra



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:12:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/953783">Let the Bough Break</a>. John has a revelation that he can't ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Love's Illusion

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part two of what is now going to be a four fic series. IT JUST GREW ON ME, OKAY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. It would definitely be helpful to read [Let the Bough Break](http://archiveofourown.org/works/953783) first, as this one spoils it. 
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Kelly!

John stretched languidly as he woke up, luxuriating for a second in the thread count that Harold Partridge insisted upon. Harold shifted beside him and slowly opened his eyes.

“Morning, Harold,” he said, swooping down for a quick kiss, morning breath be damned.

Harold indulged him but also rolled his eyes, and John couldn’t help but grin at him. “Good morning,” he said, sitting up so he was resting against the headboard. “I trust you slept well?”

“I always do,” he said, leaving the qualifier attached to that statement implied. He leaned in and kissed Harold again, longer this time, and Harold lifted a hand to the back of his head. “I’m making breakfast,” he said, somewhat breathlessly, once they broke apart. “What do you think, Harold? Eggs, pancakes… waffles?”

“I think,” he said slowly, eyes trailing down his chest, “that breakfast can wait, Mr. Reese.”

One of these days, John was going to set aside some time to reflect on why, exactly, Harold calling him ‘Mr. Reese’ in that tone had the effect on him that it did, but for right now, he had better things to do—like pulling away the sheets and wrapping his hand around Harold’s cock. “I can do that, too,” he said, grinning, and Harold let out a sharp breath.

“So I’ve learned,” managing to sound dry despite the situation. “But I had something else in mind, if you would please lie back.”

Even with the ‘please’ deceptively attached to that sentence, John knew it wasn’t actually a request. He smiled lazily at Harold, stroked him idly a few times—enjoying both the gasp and the pointed look he got in response—and then shifted the way Harold wanted him.

“Like this?” he said, watching Harold’s eyes track over the rest of his body.

“Hold onto the headboard, please,” he said, and John licked his lips, doing as he asked. “Perfect,” he said softly, just looking at him for a moment. Then he leaned in and kissed him, gripping his cock as he did. John gasped into the kiss, and Harold pulled away, meeting his eyes. He stroked him slowly, dropping kisses here and there—on his jaw, on his ear, on his neck—and John closed his eyes under the sensations. Harold kissed and touched him, gently, lightly, for what seemed like hours, but might have only been minutes, stretched out languid by the ripples of pleasure rolling through him.

“Harold,” he gasped, after a kiss to his neck that turned into a soft bite about halfway through. He shuddered and arched into it, thinking hazily about how much he wanted to touch him.

As if reading his mind, Harold pulled away just enough to murmur, “Please keep your hands where they are, Mr. Reese.”

His hips jerked, but he didn’t move his hands. He let out a groan, low and full-throated, managing to gasp, again, “ _Harold_.”

“I believe they say patience is a virtue.”

John sucked in a deep breath. “There’s patience,” he gritted out, “and then there’s just being unreasonable.”

Harold bit his neck again, timing it exactly with the slide of his thumb over the head of his cock, and the moan John let out was probably embarrassing; it was all he could do to hold on and not let this be over too soon. “Trying to make me beg?” he breathed, and thought about it—he would, he knew. He would beg himself hoarse for Harold, because of Harold, and Harold would grant him everything he wanted, just like he always did.

“While the idea is an appealing one,” Harold said, directly into his ear, “my aim is more along the lines of wordless utterances.” He punctuated that thought with a quick, hard stroke, swallowing John’s groan with a deep, thorough kiss, nipping at his bottom lip just before he broke away. He trailed a hand idly down John’s chest, just touching, and John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the _reverence_ he saw in Harold’s gaze. He’d never felt dizzier.

“Please,” he gasped, and Harold’s gaze somehow got hotter, more intense.

“Yes, of course. In time,” he said, and slipped back into his earlier rhythm, slow, steady strokes and caresses, occasionally the lightest of kisses at his temple, his shoulder, until John was gasping with every breath, greedy swallows of air, never enough. 

“I—” he tried, but had no way to complete the thought. Harold kissed him again, deliberately, stealing what little breath he had.

“Please roll over, Mr. Reese,” he said after that kiss, desire crisp and sharp in his tone.

John moved as fast as he could, hearing the nightstand drawer, the click of a plastic cap popping open. Harold’s fingers were inside him a few seconds later, moving at the same achingly slow pace as the rest of Harold’s movements, stretching him with careful deliberation. 

John gripped tightly at the bed sheets, vaguely wondering how hard he’d have to grasp to do damage, and writhed with every touch. He panted and tried to plead for more, but the words died on his lips, dry, parted, parched.

When Harold’s fingers withdrew and he pushed into him, it was in one smooth, deep stroke; John let out some kind of vocalization and moved back against him, urgent and eager. Harold didn’t take the encouragement, keeping his thrusts steady and sure, that same slow, sweet pace, making him shiver and ache.

John’s gasps didn’t amount to anything more than breathless syllables while Harold fucked him, one hand on his hip, the other tracing patterns along his back. He shuddered and panted, and when Harold moved his hand back to his cock, he whimpered.

“John,” Harold murmured, saying his name like a plea. “ _John_ ,” he said again, more insistent—a demand. 

John came abruptly, hard enough to make his vision grey briefly around the edges, and Harold sighed into his shoulder and began moving a little faster, drawing out his orgasm, crashing, coursing through him. Harold’s own finish felt just as sudden, a shout torn from his throat, followed by hard, heavy breathing, and Harold pulled out and moved off of him.

John debated experimenting with his ability to move but quickly thought better of it, breathing in as deeply as he could. Harold left the bed briefly, returning with what turned out to be a warm, wet wash cloth, cleaning him up.

He groaned and cracked open his eyes. “Harold,” he said, and he liked the way his voice sounded there—wrung out and wrecked in the best way possible, all because of Harold. “Just so you know, I don’t plan on moving again.”

“Hmm,” Harold said, done with the wash cloth now and carding a hand through his hair. “That may prove problematic, John.”

“It’s your fault, Harold.”

“I suppose it is.” He could hear the pleased amusement in his voice. “Though I do distinctly recall you mentioning something about breakfast earlier.”

“I think it’s going to have to wait,” John said through a yawn, feeling pleasantly sleepy. Sex always made him tired in the most luxurious way, luring him in with the promise of a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

It had exactly the opposite effect on Harold, invigorating and inspiring him, and he had confided that he frequently did some of his best work sitting up in bed afterward while John slept. “Go back to sleep if you’d like,” he said gently, still running a hand through his hair. “I’ll wake you if we get a call. I have plenty I can do in the meantime.” 

John shifted onto his side, and Harold left the bed again, this time returning with his laptop. When he settled back in next to him, John brought a hand to rest against his thigh. “Don’t let me to sleep too late even if we don’t get a call,” he murmured, eyes closing. “An hour, tops.”

“Very well,” Harold said, and John nodded absently, already drifting off.

\---

When John woke up, the clock on the nightstand informed him that he’d actually slept about an hour and a half, which was as far from a surprise as anything could be—Harold usually let him sleep longer than he requested, always conveniently getting absorbed in some project and “losing track of time.” 

John supposed the excuse didn’t have to be believable when he kept letting Harold get away with it.

Since Harold was no longer in bed next to him, John got up, throwing on pajama pants and an undershirt, heading out of the bedroom and toward the living room. He heard some noise in the direction of the kitchen and veered right, through the dining room, leaning against the archway separating the two. Harold, clad in pajamas, was frowning discerningly at something on his laptop, before glancing dubiously at whatever was in the pot he was holding in his hands.

“Are you trying to make breakfast?” he asked, grinning, though the microwave’s display reminded him that they were actually starting to encroach on lunch’s territory.

Harold started and then corrected himself, giving him an even look. “I thought I might attempt something new. It looked simple enough.”

“If you had actually woken me up half an hour ago, I could’ve done this,” he said mildly, and Harold merely rolled his eyes.

“Sleep cycles are ninety minutes long, Mr. Reese. It seemed foolish to wake you in the middle of one.”

John grinned more widely and wandered into the kitchen, coming around to look at whatever recipe Harold had pulled up on his screen. It was one of his favorites.

Absently, he wrapped an arm around Harold’s waist from behind, just touching. He leaned down to drop a kiss at Harold’s neck, his ear, his temple, until Harold turned around in his arms and kissed him properly on the mouth. He smiled into the kiss before pulling away to murmur, “Let me do this. It’ll be faster.”

“I suppose you are the expert,” Harold said ruefully. “I was nearly ready to order in.”

John grinned and kissed him again, and then pulled away and took the pot out of his hands. Upon inspecting it, he realized it was a good thing he’d woken up when he did; he didn’t even think Bear would eat this.

He dumped it into the trash just as the door buzzer went off; that would be the mail, John guessed. Harold glanced at his pajamas and briefly made a face, and John couldn’t help but grin again. “Want me to get it, Harold?”

It was entertaining, watching Harold visibly decide which prospect would be less scandalous for the Partridge cover—answering the door in his pajamas when it was closing in on lunchtime or letting John answer the door, also in pajamas and still looking sleep-and-sex-rumpled.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Reese,” he finally said. “I need to get dressed for the day.”

John smirked and headed out through the living room, grabbing Partridge’s wallet from where it always sat on the table next to the settee, pulling out several fifties. He opened the door to reveal the doorman, whose appraising, amused onceover was subtle enough that he gave him another fifty when he handed over the mail. “Tell Mr. Partridge I’m glad he’s feeling better,” he said with the tiniest hint of a grin at his mouth, and John smirked back at him and promised to do just that.

He flipped through Partridge’s mail for the day—looked mostly like letters asking for donations—along with a rolled-up magazine that made him wonder if Partridge had actually subscribed to it. There were just some magazines that showed up whether anyone had or not.

He set the rest of the mail on the table next to the wallet, still idly looking through the magazine, some kind of arts and literature sort of thing. He came across a small illustration of a little red-headed girl on page thirty, and he froze, unable to stop staring at it.

_Grace._

“Mr. Reese, there you are,” said Harold, breaking into his reverie. John glanced up to find Harold looking as perfectly and properly attired as usual, wearing a deep blue tie with a corresponding pocket square. “I was thinking perhaps—” He stopped suddenly, concern filling his eyes, and he asked, “Are you all right?”

He had been all right. He’d been more than all right. He’d been _happy_ , happy about living a life that didn’t actually belong to him. He’d let himself forget that. 

“Harold,” he said, and tried to construct a rational, articulate argument, tried to put into words everything that he needed to tell him, but none of it actually came out when he opened his mouth again. “Harold, you need to tell Grace.”

And just like that, every wall Harold possessed went up.

\---

“Okay, what the hell happened,” were the first words out of Shaw’s mouth upon entering the Library.

Harold didn’t look up from his monitors. “Good afternoon, Ms. Shaw. Our new number is up on the board—Janelle Miller. She’s a veterinarian, part-time activist, and an extremely good poker player. I think it might be this last that has put her on the Machine’s radar.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t answer my question—what the hell happened?” she repeated.

“I assure you I have no idea what—”

“Don’t. I had to put up with him when he thought you were _dead_ , remember? It took a week and a half before he’d leave your side, and even now, when you’re in the same room, he’s stayed within a three foot radius at all times—so why the hell is he sitting all the way over there with his head stuck in a book? A book that he’s not even reading, by the way—Hemingway, Reese, seriously? Not even you’re that much of an asshole.”

John put the book down, not even bothering to pretend it had been anything but an attempt at distraction. “I think Harold should tell Grace that he’s alive,” he said, calmly, and forced himself to ignore Harold’s flinch.

“Grace,” she said, obviously thinking. “Is that the redhead? The woman Root found?”

“They were engaged. She thinks he’s dead.”

“We’re not discussing this,” Harold cut in, and John had heard that tone before—directed at Root, directed at villainous CEOs, directed at people who _needed to listen, or else_. “You have your assignment. Let’s get to work.”

John’s jaw clenched. Shaw’s eyebrows went up.

\---

“You two are just fucking ridiculous, you know that?” she said. “I thought your unresolved pining was bad enough, but then we thought he was dead and you just _gave up_ , and I knew there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about that. And _then_ we actually got him back and you spent, what, three weeks on cloud fucking nine because you finally got a clue, and now it’s all gone to hell because, why? Because you don’t know how to function without punishing yourself all the time?”

“I spent a week thinking Harold was dead and it almost killed me,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Grace has spent the last three years thinking the same thing.”

“Yeah, but she’s probably a lot more stable than you are."

“They were engaged,” he said. “He still loves her. She still loves him. How do I take that from her? It’s hers. It’s always been hers.”

“You’re not the one who took it from her,” she said. “Harold did—which, yes, is fucked up, I grant you—but you’re blaming yourself for shit you didn’t even do. You’ve done plenty of other shit, Reese. Why are you padding the count?”

“You don’t think I’ve done anything to her? I’ve gone along with it.”

“Of course you’ve gone along with it. You’re John and he’s Harold and you give up on life without him. I’m more surprised about the fact that you’re suddenly _not_ going along with it.” 

“You think I still should be?”

“No,” she said, snorting. “I’ve seen better-executed plans by _Rangers_. That brings me back to my original point, by the way: you two are just fucking ridiculous, you know that?” 

\---

“Shaw has our number,” John said, in a clipped, crisp tone. “She’s escorting her back home right now. I’ve already gift-wrapped her pursuers for Carter.”

“Good work, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, in a tone just as crisp, just as clipped, and John tried not to compare it to the warmth he’d heard in that voice just twelve hours earlier. He’d never actually had any right to that warmth in the first place.

“I’m headed back to the loft,” he said, and he wasn’t sure what he meant it as—a question, a plea, a jab?

“Good night, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, choosing for him.

\---

He woke in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, trying to forget the images that had been burned into his mind, Harold’s pale, lifeless body, and his dead, clouded eyes—gone.

It’d been a week and two days exactly since his last nightmare with that particular subject. He couldn’t say he’d missed them.

Reaching for his phone, he dialed without thinking; Harold answered on the second ring, alert, concerned. “Are you all right, Mr. Reese?”

John closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, soaking in the sound of Harold’s voice. “Yeah,” he managed, roughly, opening them again. “Sorry I called so late. I just needed to—” He exhaled, slowly. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

“You had another nightmare.” It wasn’t a question, so John didn’t answer. “I’ll be right there, John.”

“No, Harold, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m coming over. Give me ten minutes.”

John closed his eyes, tried to summon the strength to protest again, but all he saw was Harold, no life left in his eyes, never coming back. “Okay,” he said, quietly.

\---

Harold showed up exactly ten minutes later, Bear and a small bag in tow. “Tea,” he said in explanation. “I couldn’t remember if you had any.”

“No,” he said. “We only stayed here the once—never got around to it.”

Harold merely nodded and headed for the kitchen, setting the water to boil. He ushered Bear to lie down and opened a cabinet, pulling out the necessary mugs.

Something inside him ached at the sight, sharp and jagged. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t—I’ll be fine. I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Sit down, John,” was all Harold said, and John found himself sitting on his couch, soon with a cup of tea in his hands, Harold next to him. Warm. Alive.

The ache got sharper, stronger, more acute.

“Harold, you still need to tell her,” he said, and Harold sighed, looking past him.

“What do you think this will accomplish, Mr. Reese?”

“She’s spent the last three years thinking you’re dead,” he said. “I barely lasted a week.”

“I thought you understood the situation.”

“The situation changed,” he said. “She’s not any safer without you, not anymore—if Root could find her, other people might be able to. And I can say from experience, it’s not worth it.”

“I do love her,” Harold said and then hesitated. “But she’s not… I don’t know how to tell her.”

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” said Harold firmly. “If I tell her, I’ll have to do it by myself.”

John nodded and looked away. After a moment of fragile silence, stretched taut and ready to snap, Harold said quietly, “Come here, John. Please.”

Without hesitation, John went.

\---

John woke first the next morning, carefully and quietly slipping out of bed. He got dressed and left his loft, not completely sure where he was heading, at least not until he got there: one of Shaw’s safehouses. He hadn’t found all of them yet, but he was pretty sure this was the one she used on the occasional weekend, not mid-week, so he picked the lock; given the quality, it took him a good six minutes to manage.

He’d only taken a few steps inside before he heard the telltale click of a gun cocking, and he glanced over to his left. Shaw stood there, in her pajamas, giving him the kind of look most people probably never saw twice. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”

“I didn’t think you were home?” he tried, and her jaw clenched, but she lowered the gun.

“What the hell are you doing here, Reese?”

“I just needed to borrow your shower.”

“Is something wrong with yours?”

“Harold’s at my place. I didn’t want to wake him up.”

“You snuck out of _your own apartment_ at six in the morning and _broke into mine_ to use the _shower_ because Harold’s at your place and you don’t want to look him in the eyes just yet?”

“Yes,” he said, and she rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

“Just… use the guest shower. It’s down the hall to your right.”

“Thanks,” he said. 

As he walked in that direction, he faintly heard her mutter, “Fucking ridiculous,” underneath her breath.

\---

Harold was already at the Library when they both got there, a couple hours later. “We haven’t received a new number yet today,” he said. “I’ll contact you if one comes up.”

“Is that her, then?” Shaw asked, indicating the picture open on one of his monitors. She moved in closer to see it.

Harold didn’t even glance back, rolling his eyes. “Yes, that’s her. It seems the Machine agrees with your assessment, Mr. Reese. I’m going to tell her today.”

John nodded, once. Shaw just shook her head, clapping Harold softly on the arm. “Good luck,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, giving her an even look, whether at the words or the contact, John wasn’t sure, but it did almost make him smile. He stood, called Bear to him, and left without looking back.

“I’m going to go get drunk,” John decided.

“Sure, you could do that,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “Or we could listen in.”

It took him a second—the closeness, the contact. “You planted a bug on our friend?” he asked, eyebrows lifting.

“I got the idea from somewhere, I’m sure,” she said, matching his look with one of her own.

He sat down. “Turn it on.”

She sat down next to him, hitting a couple buttons. There was the distinct sound of Harold’s gait, Bear’s nails clicking on concrete, and on one of the monitors, video of Harold walking down the sidewalk flashed up on the screen. Periodically the angle shifted, the feed jumping, coming from various cameras along his path.

“Oh, good. The Machine approves of our eavesdropping.”

“That does kind of make sense,” he said.

Harold eventually got into a cab—easily sidestepping any protestations about Bear with several large bills—heading in the direction of Grace’s townhouse, and thanks to the Machine, they essentially rode along with him.

The video feed switched to a traffic cam when the cab stopped, one that gave them a good view of the front door. Harold visibly took a deep breath—they heard it too—and then knocked on the door.

It took a second. Grace answered, her usual warm smile freezing and faltering when she saw who had shown up on her doorstep. “ _Harold_?”

“Grace,” Harold said, as awkward as he’d ever sounded. “May I come in?”

Grace didn’t say anything for a moment, the shock evident on her features. “Yes! Yes, of course. I… _Harold_? Come in, of course, God, come in.”

He walked inside. Just before closing the door behind him, he looked straight at the camera, mouthing _no_. 

“I think he’s onto us,” said John, which was promptly followed by the static and sharp feedback of a listening device being crushed.

“Apparently,” Shaw said, and watched as the screen went blank for a moment. It popped back on a second later—no sound, and a terrible angle, but it was inside Grace’s apartment. “I don’t think the Machine thinks Dad knows best on this one. What do you think—cell phone camera?”

“It’d explain the angle,” he said. “How long, you think, before Harold takes out the battery?”

“Looks like it might be a second. He’s got his hands full.” 

Grace was obviously trying not to cry, and he was obviously trying to hold himself back from her. The dam broke a second later—the tears, and then Harold was holding her, stroking her hair, his eyes closing as he murmured whatever words of comfort she needed to hear.

He ignored the ache in his chest. She deserved that comfort, far more than he ever had.

They watched Harold hold her for a few long moments, until finally he kissed her on the forehead and pulled away, coming into better view of the camera. He gave them another pointed look, and then the feed vanished again.

“So much for that,” he said, standing.

“Come on,” she said, standing as well. “I know where we should go.”

“As long as it has alcohol, I don’t care.”

“Just follow me and get your ass in the car.”

\---

Shaw took him to a gym, an all-in-one place that even included a firing range. First they ran laps, then did some boxing, followed by more laps, plus some weight-training, and finally they got in a little target practice. All told, it killed around three hours. 

“What? It’s a good place to work off some steam, Jesus, that’s all,” she said, at his questioning look. “Hit the showers already. You’re fucking gross.”

He had to admit, he did feel a little better, and it’d kept his mind occupied. One of the guys he ran into in the showers introduced himself as Ryan. “Your girlfriend’s been coming here for a couple months now. She’s kind of a legend.”

John had to laugh at that, especially once he imagined the expression on Shaw’s face. “Not my girlfriend,” he said, and then decided he couldn’t help himself: “Sister.”

She’d probably kill him when she found out, but it’d be worth it.

\---

They headed back to the Library afterward, out of habit, and John was actually surprised to find not just Harold there, but Grace as well. Harold’s posture stiffened minutely as soon as he took them in, and John tried not to let it get to him.

“Oh, hi,” she said, and then recognition dawned in her eyes. “Detective Stills?”

“John,” he corrected her gently. “John Reese.”

“Sam Shaw,” said Shaw, next to him, and he wondered about the curious look Grace gave her. 

“These are two of my... associates,” Harold said to Grace. “Obviously, you’ve met John already.”

“Yes, I have,” she said, shaking her head, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry if I seem… flustered. This is a lot to take in.”

“It is,” he said, giving her a soft smile. “You seem fine, considering. Did you need us, Harold?”

“Not today, evidently,” he said. “I’m sure this respite won’t last long.”

“You know where to find me,” he said, and headed for the door.

“Hold on a second, Reese,” Shaw called, just as Grace said, “Oh, were you going to leave too?”

John turned around and watched Shaw look, for just a second, slightly caught off guard. “Well, Harold here usually calls us in when he needs us, so…”

Grace nodded understandingly. “That’s fine. That makes sense. I just thought maybe we could talk, at some point? Would that be okay?”

Shaw glanced from Harold to John and then back to Grace. “Sure,” she said, after a beat. “Yeah. That’d be fine.”

Grace smiled warmly at her, a genuine warmth, and they both made a hasty retreat. 

“That was weird, right?” Shaw asked him.

“A little,” John said, considering. “Maybe she just wants a friend.”

“Maybe,” Shaw said, looking dubious. “It seemed like more than that, though. Like something else.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said, and stopped at the car. “I’m headed back to my place. How long did you plan on babysitting me today?”

“That depends,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Are you planning to crawl into a bottle as soon as you get there?”

“No,” he said, surprised to find that he actually meant it. “No, this is the right thing. Harold and Grace, they make sense together.”

Shaw raised her eyebrows. “And you and Harold don’t?”

John shrugged, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “You and I both know, Shaw—people like us, we don’t get that ending. Happily ever after is for other people.” 

He offered her a wan smile, heading down the street.


End file.
